This week, I received, besides the doubled tripled migraine headache, my contributor's copy of The 2005 Rhysling Anthology. Its cover is all satiny smooth and beautifully illustrated and just looking at it makes me feel fancy. I also feel all fancy that within those pages are poems written by friends of mine; borneman, jdeguzman, cristalia, Mikal Trimm and Marcie Lynn Tentchoff.

I managed this week to write a bio for the hardcover edition of the same publication. I'm not sure whether that information is all hush-hush, but while I was thinking thinking about what to put in the bio, I wanted to be all imaginative and write things that wasn't true about me at all. Things like I'm a skateboarding mom who likes to set off bottle rockets in the empty church parking lot across from the laundrymat as the moon crests the horizon during the hot months of summer or I'm an eccentric little old woman who wears purple clothing and red hats but only to the mall and afternoon bridge games, all the other times, I wear nothing at all but paisley tent dresses and pink curlers beneath a white mesh head scarf. Or about how I collect cats and ants and black tee shirts and dolls without heads and dolls without bodies and I hang the doll's heads and I hang the doll's bodies on strings and wires from the cherry tree in my backyard. I restrained myself, however, and wrote something true and quite boring.

Tell me, what would you write if you could lie through your teeth if you could be wildly creative upon your bio?